


Fred Astaire

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU: University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with Marius inviting them to his under-aged girlfriend’s debutante ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fred Astaire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, but thought I'd post it here as well.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies: I own nothing but my typos.
> 
> Song is "Fred Astaire" by Lucky Boys Confusion.
> 
> This was going to be part of a series, and may yet end up as such, but for the moment, it's a stand-alone. Should be noted that while Enjolras/Grantaire/almost all Les Amis are referred to by their surnames, in my headcannon, they're their first names. Probably hilariously OOC, but c'est la vie.

“ _Heel, toe, heel, toe, side to side AGAIN, gonna get it right_  
 _Don't push so hard, nothing is ever easy_  
 _Don't forget your please and thank you's, don't forget to smile_  
 _Don't pass this up, nothing is ever easy_  
 _Are you ready to work real hard_  
 _Are you tired it's just the start_  
 _Listen to me son, I'll take you far_  
  
 _You can call it anything you want the fact remains the same_  
 _I never got to be your Fred Astaire_  
 _You can lie to yourself and all your friends_  
 _And pretend that you don't care_  
 _But circumstance gets in the way_ ”

 

It all started with Marius inviting them to his under-aged girlfriend’s debutante ball. The group had been hanging out at their favorite coffee shop, chatting aimlessly, until Marius came in, looking nervous as could be. “What’s up with you?” Bahorel asked, clapping him on the back.

“You look like you’re about to puke,” observed Grantaire, who, having had much experience in this realm, quickly backed away from the other man.

Marius frowned at that, but then quickly returned to looking freaked out. “Look, I…I have a favor to ask. For Cosette.”

“Well if it’s for Cosette…” smirked Courfeyrac, tipping him an enormous wink that made Marius blush scarlet.

Enjolras, who was perusing the day’s newspaper, looked over the top of it at Marius. “Whatever it is you have to ask us, spit it out already,” he said calmly.

Clearing his throat nervously, Marius started speaking very quickly in an unnaturally high-pitched voice. “Lookifyouguysdon’twanttogoit’stotallynotabigdeal,butCosette’sdebutanteballiscomingupandshetoldmetoinviteyouguystocomewithbecausetheysometimesneedextraguysandIthink thewholethingisreallystupidbutIpromisedIwouldaskso—”

Jehan choked on his coffee. “Did you say something about a debutante ball?” he squeaked.

“Hell. No.” Grantaire didn’t even wait for Marius to answer. “That’s just not happening. I don’t even care if it’s a favor for your jailbait girlfriend.”

“Please, you guys?” Marius was giving them ridiculous puppy dog eyes. “It wouldn’t be so bad. There’s an open bar and I have it on good authority that they don’t ID. And, yes, you’d have to dress up a little but, like, it could be really fun and Cosette says that they really need guys to attend just in case they need to use them for stuff.”

Combeferre groaned. “Marius, you realize that this sounds absolutely terrible and no fun whatsoever, right? Why would you think that any one of us want to be a part of this?”

Marius still looked distinctly pink and didn’t seem to able to articulate an answer to this. “So that’s a no, right?” asked Courfeyrac. “We’re not going through with this asinine plan?”

Exclamations of assent burst through the group, until—“I’ll be there,” Enjolras said quietly, and everyone swiveled at once to look at him incredulously. Of all the people, Enjolras seemed the least likely to want to show up at one of these Bourgeois-to-a-T events.

Still, Enjolras volunteering to attend seemed to give Marius courage, and he looked imploringly at the others. “Please?” Marius begged. “They most likely won’t even ask you to be White Knights”—Grantaire choked on his drink at the mention of the term ‘White Knights’, and Courfeyrac pounded him on the back, grinning—“they just always need extra guys around in case some girl can’t get a date.”

After much moaning and groaning, everyone eventually agreed, albeit reluctantly. Even Grantaire, though he added, “Anyone tries to make me a White Knight and I will punch them.”

“Anyone tries to make you a White Knight and I’ll die of laughter,” said Combeferre dryly. “Though no one in their right mind would make any of us White Knights. Especially you, Grantaire.”

“Yeah, or Enjolras,” snorted Courfeyrac. “I mean, could you even imagine? He’d probably scold the poor girl the entire time for being a part of the 1%. Hashtag Occupy Debutante Ball.”

The group burst into good-natured laughter. No one noticed the grimace that crossed Enjolras’s face. 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac and Grantaire got ready at their apartment, trying to keep from laughing at each other as they put on their best suits (and as Grantaire tried to do something to control his hair, which was more or less a losing battle). Grantaire downed a half dozen shots of vodka before they left, and though Courfeyrac gave him a disapproving glance, he could hardly blame him. Tonight was going to be hell, and not for the first time, they both wondered out loud how exactly they had gotten talked into this.

They arrived at the hall, took one look at the crowd, and headed straight to the bar. The place was swanky as hell. It was almost hilarious how opulent the event was, and despite wearing their best suits, Courfeyrac and Grantaire were immensely underdressed.

At the bar, Courfeyrac tried to put on airs by asking the bartender what types of champagne they were serving in the snootiest voice he could muster. The bartender became visibly flustered and apologized profusely that they were only serving one type of champagne, Cristal.

“Cristal,” muttered Courfeyrac, handing a glass to Grantaire, who managed to look suitably impressed. “Of course. Heaven forbid we break out the good stuff this early in the evening.”

A girl nearby threw him a look, having obviously overheard. Tossing her hair, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I hear they’re planning on bringing out some Bollinger Blanc de Noirs Vieilles Vignes Francaises 1997 following the opening dance.”

Courfeyrac half-smiled at her and leaned over to ask Grantaire out of the corner of his mouth, “Bollinger what-now?”   

“Bollinger Blanc de Noirs Vieilles Vignes Francaises 1997. Retails for over $600.” Grantaire took a sip of the Cristal. “Shame that this only sells for $200 a bottle.” Courfeyrac stared at him, open-mouthed. “What?” asked Grantaire. “I’m a drunk. If there’s one thing I know, it’s alcohol.”

Courfeyrac shrugged and took a sip of the champagne, standing on his tip-toes to look over the crowd. “Do you see any of the others?” he asked.

Grantaire shook his head. “No. They probably didn’t show up. Just us, who were stupid enough to actually listen to Marius.”

“Like you would say no to free alcohol,” Courfeyrac chided off-handedly, still searching the sea of faces. “But I thought Enjolras would actually show. When he gives his word, he follows through.”

Frowning, Grantaire drained his glass and reached for a full one from a passing waiter. “Maybe he’s late.”

“Maybe…” Courfeyrac trailed off as the emcee began to talk.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the annual Society Debutante Ball…”

Courfeyrac stopped listening immediately, choosing instead to people-watch. He heard when Cosette was announced, and turned to watch Marius beaming up at her from the foot of the staircase. Then he zoned out again, until—

“And finally, presenting our head debutante, Mademoiselle Victoire DuPont, daughter of Jean and Marie DuPont, to begin the ball with the opening dance, and her escort, Monsieur Enjolras Laurent.”

Courfeyrac almost choked on his mouthful of $200 champagne. He exchanged a glance with Grantaire, who looked just as confused as he, but there Enjolras was, unsmiling, dressed to the nines in a tuxedo – complete with tails, even – a young, generically pretty girl giggling as he led her out to the dance floor. With a sidelong glance at Grantaire, Courfeyrac opened his mouth to make a snide comment, but then the music started, and all words died in Courfeyrac’s throat.

Courfeyrac could not help but stare, but damnit, Enjolras could _dance_. His body moved to the rhythm of the music with a distracted leonine grace, his feet stepping in perfect time to the orchestral arrangement. If there was any complaint to be made, it was that he held the girl in his arms in a detached sort of way, as if she were merely a prop that he moved around the dance floor, but it was a minor quibble at best given the glory that was Enjolras dancing.

It was as if the entire audience was holding its collective breath, not wanting to intrude on what they saw before them. Courfeyrac definitely didn’t. He saw Grantaire out of the corner of his eye, glass of champagne half-raised to his lips and entirely forgotten. Courfeyrac considered reminding him not to stare, but they are all staring. It was impossible not to stare.

There were barely words to describe it, though Courfeyrac could not help but think that had Jehan been there, he would have been able to put it to words. Or maybe not. Enjolras’s grace seemed to defy words, or to be poetry put to motion.

The song came to an end and with a polished perfection, and Enjolras stepped back from the girl, giving her the appropriate bow to mark the end of their dance. But then, before the audience could break into applause, he turned to the room at large, his eyes searching, and once he had found who he is looked for, he gave another bow. This one was full of mocking contempt, and Courfeyrac followed Enjolras’s gaze to see an older woman with light gray hair and unreadable eyes purse her lips in disapproval.

Then Enjolras turned and walked away, straight out of the hall, as the audience started buzzing with whispers. Grantaire instantly followed, and Courfeyrac waited for half a moment, debating as to whether or not he should, but damnit, he was curious as to what the hell is going on, so he trailed after Grantaire.

He almost lost sight of the other man through the crowd, and it took him a few minutes to find where Grantaire and Enjolras went. Then he heard voices around a corner in the back of the building and paused, listening to Grantaire and Enjolras talk.

“—didn’t know you could dance like that,” Grantaire was saying.

Enjolras snorted quietly. “I’ve hardly had an opportunity to show it off,” he said wryly.

“You should, though. Show it off more often.” There was a long pause, then Grantaire asked, his voice full of barely restrained curiosity, “That woman, in the end, who you bowed to…who was she?”

An even longer pause before Enjolras muttered, “She’s the woman who’s the reason that I know how to dance the way that I do. My mother.”

Courfeyrac felt his mouth drop open in shock. Enjolras’s mother? The blond man never spoke of his parents, of his family, and now to find out that his mother was here, tonight? Grantaire echoed Courfeyrac’s shock. “You mom was here? Why?”

“She’s head of the debutante ball committee,” said Enjolras, and Courfeyrac knew him well enough to tell, even without looking, that a muscle was working in his jaw.

“You mom is head of the debutante ball?” Grantaire repeated.

Enjolras sighed exasperatedly. “C’mon, Grantaire, you know enough about me to know that my parents are wealthy. Very wealthy. This is exactly the kind of society scene at which they love to be seen. You have no idea how many of these things I’ve been dragged to over the years. My mom made me start taking dance classes when I was five, just to prepare me for the day that I would be at a debutante ball, escorting some ‘fine lady of class’.”

Grantaire was silent for a moment, then asked, “And did you make your debut into fine society?”

With a snort of laughter, Enjolras said, his voice probably harsher than he intended, “No. Fuck no. I was two weeks away from it when I decided it was finally time to tell my parents that I was gay. And then they told me…they told me that I wasn’t going to be making my debut as a gay kid. So I told them that I wouldn’t be making my debut at all.”

“Really? But then…why were you here tonight?”

Enjolras sighed. “It’s…complicated.” The silence stretched into minutes as Enjolras clearly tried to put into words what was so complicated. “They…they own me, basically. They pay for everything. For school, for my apartment. On two conditions: one, I jump when they say jump, and two, that what I do with my personal life on my own time is fine just as long as I don’t ever bring a guy to any of their society gatherings. They can’t have the world knowing their son’s a fag, after all.”

The venom he put into the three-letter word suggested to Courfeyrac that this was his parents’ word of choice. “Why don’t you just tell them to fuck off?” Grantaire suggested lightly, the levity betrayed by an edge in his voice.

“You think I like this?” Enjolras asked, the strain in his voice evident. “You think I like being tied to this world, to them? Don’t you think I would give it up if I could? I hate having to rely on them, hate having to even talk to them, hate—” He broke off, and Courfeyrac felt himself blush when he realized that Enjolras was crying. For the first time, he felt like he was intruding by listening to this conversation. “What choice do I have?” Enjolras choked out finally.

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” said Grantaire, sounding as uncomfortable as Courfeyrac felt. It was strangely obscene listening to Enjolras cry. Then Grantaire added in a strained voice, “At least the drink selection at this kind of place is good, though, right?” Enjolras didn’t answer, and Grantaire tried a different approach. “So you must hate dancing, huh? After all your mom made you go through?”

Enjolras laughed bitterly. “No, that’s the really weird part. I still love it. I can’t even tell you why I do, other than to say that it’s a feeling that can’t be replicated. But it’s also not as if I can ever come to these events, at least not without running into _them_. Without running into this life that they still want for me.”

There was silence for a long moment, then Grantaire said, in a soft voice that barely sounded like his own, “Here.”

Courfeyrac frowned, wondering what was happening, wishing not for the first time that he could see them. “What are you doing?” Enjolras asked, sounding as confused as Courfeyrac felt.

“Dance with me.” Enjolras let out a snort of derision. “I mean it,” Grantaire continued, his voice still impossibly soft and gentle. “Dance with me.”

There was a long pause, then Enjolras said, so quietly that Courfeyrac almost couldn’t hear him, “Alright.”

Then there was no sound except for the sound of shoes sliding across the floor, and after a moment of indecision, Courfeyrac chanced peeking around the corner. Sure enough, they were dancing together.

It wasn’t nearly as graceful as Enjolras’s waltz with the debutante. Grantaire had obviously had no dance training, and thus moved with timid, slow steps. In fact, they seemed to be swaying back and forth more than they were actually dancing, looking shyly into each other’s eyes.

It was infinitely more beautiful.

Courfeyrac watched them for a moment longer, then turned and slipped away down the hall toward the ball that could never in a million years hope to replicate the dance he had just witnessed. 


End file.
